Elephant

by Paul Eggers

My friends are kind when Marine Corps stories
sprout in our house. The time, for instance,
in '71, I rode an elephant in Vietnam ,
just a buddy and me, drunk, elated
when our ride decided to squat.
Oh monstrous, oh huge: it pissed
a fireman's river onto the street.
We held on tight to the howdah,
laughing at nothing, joking too loud.
The mahout up front, wrinkled, tiny, ignored us,
jammed his feet into the elephant's ears
and kicked, his way of shouting out Hurry.
No luck. It was the funniest thing.

Then he pulled out a six-inch pick
and peppered the hump of the elephant's head:
The cadence was hard, a march through hide
and sinew and bone. The pick slid in and out.
"A blowhole," my friend said, but the joke
fell flat, and we felt ashamed,
hated ourselves for no practical reason.

There was only the beat of the old man
digging, the practiced grace of his motion,
the elegant way his wrists bent back and forth.
I couldn't look away. This was near a free-fire zone,
and artillery was rumbling up north.
When the elephant rose it stood without rancor.
There was only the beat, the shells in the distance,
the mahout and his poor bloody monster.
We were small in the presence
of its pulpy, beast flower.

Linda smiles broadly, plays with her drink.
She's patient, waiting to get on with the evening.
No need for picks here. Surely not here.
Here there is only our beautiful house,
a story or two in the lazy air, buzzing,
summer days like blankets.
We sleep long, easy hours.
We worry sometimes we'll disappear.

So we head to the kitchen, me, my wife, Linda and Mike,
to peel potatoes for au gratin.
A little red wine and we're laughing,
make a joke-fest of cooking.
Chunks of potato lurch into the pot.
They go thump
thump
thump.